Just a short two-parter; college is eating my life, and we're just going to blame this on looking over old stuff and getting an idea. Set during Deathly Hallows, a reflection on power-shifts and morals, ethics, etc. for the first bit. Very little dialogue until later on. You don't have to read "Look Down"; it helps set the dynamic for the next chapter and establishes the parallel, but it's not entirely necessary.
I don't own Scabior, but Rochelle is mine.
The fall of the Ministry happened in a blur. The puppets replaced the real things just as quickly, turning the interior chaos loose on Wizarding Britain. Barely twenty-four hours had passed and Death Eaters and bounty-hunters were rounding up Muggleborns, half-bloods with iffy ideals, and anyone who stood in their way.
Inspector Rochelle had watched the cells empty of actual criminals, vicious men and women who would do unspeakable harm to whoever hands could be laid on; in their places were gentle souls, scared.
The night shifts were terrible.
She was used to the screaming and crying when it was from those who deserved it, a perverse sense of humor and justice taking over and rationalizing it for her. These were the people she worked to protect, the very reason she was so adamant to have become an Auror in the first place. Co-workers at first, and then the occasional name she saw, a son or daughter who was the spitting image of his or her parents when they were in school. Complete strangers who insisted they had done no wrong, why were they here.
The only difference was she knew and believed them.
When the first group was brought in, she was stuck working overnight. When the warden found her in her office the next morning, curled up under her desk with bloodshot eyes and a runny nose, he said nothing. He helped her up and spelled away any trace she had of crying herself to sleep. He looked like he hadn't even slept himself. He was lucky to keep his position, as was she, but they both knew a strong face had to be put on.
Eventually, as always, the screaming and the crying stopped. She watched lives wither before her eyes; barely the start of autumn and already she knew some would not make it through until the end of the year. They probably didn't want to anyway.
Azkaban had done its toll on her, making her harsh and terribly single-minded. She was, in all probability, a liability put off to the side because they needed someone who knew how to work in the prison. She supposed the warden put in a word for her as well, as much as his word was worth nowadays.
She had found one of the patrolling Aurors giving extra food to an inmate; when he tried to explain, she said nothing except to do what he thought best.
Her role was to the protection of the public, she reminded herself. The public had simply shifted and society changed, so the needs were different. Rationalization only went so far, but it helped her keep her composure and professionalism and ultimately, her pay.
It didn't stop her from thinking about how wrong all of this was, looking the other way when she didn't have to. She did see flaws with Fudge's mindset (how the hell could he have denied anything when it was right in front of his face), and knew anyone who ended up in Azkaban deserved, on some level, to be there.
Rochelle saw more of the previous inmates than she expected to; they were hired as Snatchers, and she was more than aware of the threats and looks she received while at the Ministry. It did not escape her attention the people around her would more than love to see her suffer for the misery she caused for them. The people outside of Azkaban that knew her looked at her with pity or hate, and the people inside barely looked at anyone.
The question of why seemed to rise frequently as of late; why continue working for a corrupt government covering for a pureblood tyrant hell-bent on murdering a child? Why stay in England; she had no family left to worry about? Why were innocent people being caught up in the chaos?
She didn't care about how things came to be the way they were; teenagers either under the care of Death Eaters at Hogwarts or on the run with Snatchers on their tails, everyone ducking their heads and scurrying along, eyeing neighbors with careful glances. It was every man for himself.
How was something she didn't give two shits about. Nothing happens without a reason.
She decided she would rather fight and probably die for the side she always believed in than perpetuate the system further. An owl was sent to the Ministry in resignation, and another sent to her boss; the letters told two different stories and the latter was promptly burned as soon as it was read.
The harsh wilderness around her was a comfort; if it was easier than Azkaban's winds and battering waves, she would have thought it worthwhile to go back. Rochelle had no idea where she would go, and no one to travel with. Traveling alone was a bad idea, but it was her only idea. Putting her training to use, she came across groups who actually had destinations, and acted as a body-guard; protecting the side she believed in.
Snatcher incidents were more frequent than she liked. Rochelle began to understand how they were tracking them, and even if she came across as a protective hen, she'd much rather know her efforts bought them a little time than give them a breadcrumb trail to a reward.
She had been caught in the start of winter, staying behind to let the others, a family of underage siblings with dead parents, run to meet a Portkey out of the country. It didn't take long for her to place almost all of the faces of the Snatchers. Fenrir Greyback had never had much of an effect on her when there were bars between them during his brief time. He had slammed her against a tree, and even though she tried to control her breathing, her heart raced at a pace she didn't know existed. Sharp teeth grazed her neck, murmurs of a slow and painful punishment for her arrogance and abuse of power meeting her ears.
"Tha's enough, Greyback. We need 'er in one piece for now."
A large hand grabbed her and whacked her against the tree again, knocking her out.
